


A Continual Blush

by emjee (MerryHeart)



Category: Emma - Jane Austen
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Lazy Mornings, Morning After, Pillow Talk, snogging under a chestnut tree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-23 10:03:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23176408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerryHeart/pseuds/emjee
Summary: Lately, Emma had been given opportunity to appreciate how her body's small treacheries could be, if not quite pleasant, at least far more interesting.Domestic fluff from the Woodhouse-Knightley household, both before and after the wedding.
Relationships: George Knightley/Emma Woodhouse
Comments: 71
Kudos: 513





	A Continual Blush

**Author's Note:**

> "I just want to read fanfic of Emma and Knightley settling into the "lovers" bit of friends to lovers and, idk, snogging in a field or something." --me, about to get tired of waiting for someone else to write it

In spite of all the previous day's excitement, Emma woke early. The first faint beams of dawn could be perceived at the edge of the curtains, washing the room in pearly grey, like the inside of the shell one of her nephews had brought her from their last trip to the sea.

She would see it for herself soon enough--fortnight's trip--much to arrange in the next week--but it was too early, she decided, for such a tumble of thoughts--they could wait a few more hours, at the very least. A newly married woman deserved a day's respite from such concerns.

Emma rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes, trying to determine if it was worth trying to go back to sleep. Her husband stirred beside her, but did not wake. Dear Mr. Knightley, the earliest riser of anyone she knew, remained quite insensible to the world. She decided to tease him only a little when he finally returned to consciousness--they had both of them gotten very little sleep, and a man so regular and dependable in his habits could easily forgiven for altering those habits for the day after his own wedding.

Emma rolled toward him, slipping an arm around his waist and nuzzling against his shoulder. To think that this should be her fate, to wake in a bed warmed by her dearest friend, when so few months ago she had lived in true dread at the thought of remaining alone at Hartfield--it was a joy she felt she must look at indirectly, out of the corner of her eye, lest the full reality of it completely overwhelm her, as it nearly had yesterday.

_I, Emma, take thee, George, to my wedded husband._

She had retained her composure as she repeated her vows, but the tears that had threatened at the church door once again made themselves felt as Mr. Knightley (George?--Lord, she really was going to have to determine what she would call him) slipped the wedding band on her finger.

_With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship..._

A fine phrase to include in a public marriage service, thought Emma, although she had to admit it felt absolutely true. How many walks had the two of them taken, in the weeks between their first understanding of each other's hearts and their wedding, that had detoured sharply to the cover of a horse chestnut tree or the solitude of a deserted field, so they might indulge in the enjoyment of the rights they now had, and speak in impatient anticipation of the rights to come?

Emma had grown up aware of her body and how it could constantly betray her--from the hundred illnesses her father imagined, to the bloody noses in childhood, to pain and more blood when she was thirteen, the sort that dear Miss Taylor said made her a woman. Emma appreciated neither the pain nor the blood, and felt that beginning to take charge of the household a year later, upon her sister's marriage, made her more a woman than any inconvenience of the flesh did.

But lately, Emma had been given opportunity to appreciate how her body's small treacheries could, if not quite pleasant, at least far more interesting. The heat that had crept into her face and could not be blamed on the crowd at the Crown Inn, when they had finally had their ball--the awareness of every brush of Mr. Knightley's hands, of his eyes, such as she had never felt when he did something so mundane as to hand her into a carriage. Later, the constant desire to be near him, to touch him, to have him touch her. Every symptom she had searched for while trying to reason herself into being in love with Frank Churchill was easily found when she examined the matter with respect to Mr. Knightley.

Some weeks ago they had walked after breakfast, as had become a habit, her arm laced through his and held so close she felt he must be continually reassuring himself that her heart was, indeed, his own. She did sympathize--their understanding was still fresh, and not yet widely known--and with every passing step Emma found herself more aware of the warmth of his body pressed against hers, of the warmth in her own face, of the way his shoulders shook when she made him laugh. As they approached the horse chestnut--a tree she was growing rather fond of, both particularly and in general as a species--she looked up at him and noticed a familiar flush in his own complexion, and upon meeting his gaze steered them both beneath the chestnut tree without another word.

"How," she asked, after a gratifyingly thorough embrace, "did we not notice this sooner?"

"Over-familiarity?" suggested Mr. Knightley, pressing a kiss to her neck. "An exceptionally stubborn case of denial?"

Emma shivered. "If you muss my collar, everyone will have a fair guess at what we have been up to, and the more observant ones will not miss the mark."

"Hm," said Mr. Knightley, returning his attentions to her mouth.

"As it is," continued Emma, some moments later, "now that Mrs. Weston is safely delivered, we will have to start telling people. My opinion of my own talent for concealment is not what it once was."

"And we shall tell them," he assured her, "tomorrow, if you like."

"After seeing the discomfiture wrought by the secrecy of Jane Fairfax and Frank Churchill--"

"It is not at all like--"

"I know it is not like, and yet I still would rather our dear ones know."

"Joy is double when it is honestly shared?"

"Exactly so. Besides, the sooner we have the banns read, the sooner we may go to church, the sooner we can stop sneaking about beneath horse chestnut trees."

"I should hope the state of holy matrimony does not entirely preclude me kissing you beneath a tree from time to time, as we seem to both enjoy it."

"I will grant you that," said Emma, "but how much more will we enjoy such things with the addition of one or two comforts, such as, for example, being indoors, or sitting down."

"I was ready to argue that the fresh air is comfort enough, but continue to speak of the idea of kissing you in the vicinity of soft surfaces and you will soon find me advocating to tell your father of our engagement today."

"Tomorrow!" laughed Emma. "I shall tell him tomorrow--God give me strength--and then you may think all you like of kissing me in domestic situations."

"Until tomorrow I may be able to think of little else." He crooked a finger under her chin, tipping her face to his. "You've made me more distracted in the last few months than I ever was in the rest of my life put together."

Emma forwent a verbal reply in favor of one less vocal, but no less emphatic.

Drowsy in her marriage bed, Emma smiled at the recollection. She heard the clock downstairs chime half past eight--how strangely time passed when one was in and out of sleep--and Mr. Knightley began to stir beside her.

"That's a fair bit of light beneath the curtains," he murmured.

"It is just now half eight."

"Tell me now--will I ever hear the end of this?"

"I think as a new-married man you may be forgiven for remaining so thoroughly abed."

"With such an inducement as you here with me, Emma, I think I could be persuaded never to rise again."

"We both know how absurdly untrue that is," said Emma, "but I will own you are no longer the indifferent lover you once called yourself."

"Indeed?" he said, smiling as he met Emma's mouth with his own. "I am determined to be the husband you deserve, Emma."

"I rather hope you will be better than I deserve, for I think perhaps none of us truly deserves the love that we desire most deeply for ourselves, and yet it does not matter, we shall be loved as such anyway, and I am wholly in favor of it. As long as you are much as you have been--my friend, and now my love in addition--I shall count myself the most fortunate of women." (Even more fortunate than Jane Fairfax--from whom Emma had had the kindest letter of congratulations, and to whom Emma only wished well, and indeed, desired further friendship--but the old habits of comparison were not yet entirely put away.)

"You speak like the prayer before Communion--We do not presume, et cetera, et cetera, manifold and great mercies."

"I have paid attention in church once or twice in my life, you know."

"Was the second time yesterday?"

"You are a vexation," said Emma, with immense fondness.

"A vexation with which you have nearly twenty-two years' experience, Mrs. Knightley. We cannot say we joined our souls without knowing each other's."

"I would not have married for anything less, though when you call me Mrs. Knightley it makes me look around for Isabella."

"Emma you shall be, then, as you always have been."

"That's right--we are as we have been, you and I, only now we have a hundred more familiarities permitted us."

"Thank God for that," said he, "otherwise I would be condemned to a constant blush and preoccupation with small ridiculous details like the curve of your ear. As we are now, I may do this--" here he traced the shell of her ear and wound his fingers through her hair, "and know that you really are here next to me."

"In your bed. As your wife."

"The archness of your expression suggests you are very pleased with yourself."

"And I am. You may rest content--I am very pleased with you, too."

"That is a great relief, as you once told me you deserve only the best treatment because you never put up with any other."

Emma laughed. "How true that remains, at least where our marriage bed is concerned."

"We need not fear deficiency in that regard, I think. You please me greatly, Emma."

"If we continue our marriage in the tune of mutual satisfaction with which we've begun, our neighbors will soon grow tired of the harmony, or else scarcely know us. We must contrive to quarrel every fortnight or so, or we might become thoroughly unrecognizable."

"Never," cried Mr. Knightley, pulling Emma closer to him.

"Oh, fine," she conceded, "we shall just have to resign ourselves to being perfectly happy."

"Perhaps, but I do not think we'll often be bored." He demonstrated his point by kissing Emma until their mouths were both quite red. "I might suggest a high collar this morning," he said, upon examining her neck.

"You will certainly require one yourself," she replied.

"Thankfully good valet and maids tell no tales."

"Oh," Emma laughed, laying her head against his chest, "I think married life will suit us excessively."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This was such fun to write, and I hope it made you smile.
> 
> The prayer Mr. Knightley references is called the Prayer of Humble Access, which begins, "We do not presume to come to this thy table, merciful Lord, trusting in our own righteousness, but in thy manifold and great mercies. We are not worthy so much as to gather up the crumbs under thy table, but thou art the same God whose property is always to have mercy..." Basically, we don't deserve God's love, God loves us anyway--this is also the point Emma is trying to make about people. Plenty of Episcopalians and Anglicans still say this prayer every Sunday, in basically the same language Emma and Mr. Knightley (and Jane Austen) would have used, which I think is epic.
> 
> Also, thank God for Jane Austen, a writer who uses em-dashes even more than I do.


End file.
